


The Dude Ranch Affair

by LeetheT



Category: Man from Uncle - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:29:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1415146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeetheT/pseuds/LeetheT





	The Dude Ranch Affair

_“Unfortunately I’m a professional._

_I can’t kill you just because I want to._

_I have to know why.”_

**—— Napoleon Solo**

 

Napoleon Solo sat at his paperwork-drowned desk, staring at his hands, desperate to see that, in spite of recent events, they were rock steady as usual. They weren’t. He rested his head in them, running over and over in his mind the inexplicable scene he’d caused on the firing range 20 minutes ago, waiting for the inevitable call from Mr. Waverly, wishing Illya were there. The taciturn Russian could be surprisingly articulate when championing his partner, and Solo had a feeling he was going to need that help in about ...

The communicator buzzed. He slapped the button. “Solo.”

“Mr. Waverly would like to see you in his office immediately.”

“On my way.” He rose.

… In about three minutes.

 

_Make that five minutes_ , he corrected himself on entering the office. His leg was slow in healing.

“Mr. Solo.” Nothing in Mr. Waverly’s tone or expression was out of the ordinary; Napoleon might have been there for a routine assignment rather than a very nonroutine reprimand.

Napoleon stood behind a chair, in a manner suggesting he was at attention. Or in detention, which was likely.

“I’ve just had a report from Tewkes, in the armory. Is it correct that you ... engaged in a tussle with Agent Norbury?”

Napoleon, calmer now, said, “Yes sir.”

“Really, Mr. Solo, this is hardly your usual form of inappropriate physical relations in the office,”  Mr. Waverly said. “Can you explain it?”

Napoleon took a deep breath. Nothing less than the truth would satisfy Waverly’s severely precise mind. Moreover, the truth was the only conceivable justification for his assaulting another agent, however marginally. Unfortunately, the truth was also likely to get him sidelined again, only a week after the Med section had declared him fit for paperwork at least.

Cursing to himself, Napoleon squared his shoulders and came clean.

“We were on the firing range, sir. I was finishing up when Norbury looked at my score and ... made a crack about ... about the last mission being beneficial to my aim.”

“What sort of ... crack, Mr. Solo?” Waverly pressed.

Napoleon sighed quietly. “His precise words were ‘I guess some agents thrive in captivity,’ sir.”

Waverly nodded, clenching his unlit pipe between his teeth. “And for that you...” He glanced at the file in front of him, continuing as if quoting, which was possible. “...backhanded him to the floor?”

Napoleon nodded, not adding that it was lucky for Norbury his gun had been empty. That would confirm beyond a doubt that he wasn’t fit for duty.

Waverly stared at the table. “Although I understand your sensitivity to such juvenile taunts, and do not encourage my agents to goad one another, your overreaction suggests to me you aren’t fully recovered from the Brandywine ordeal.”

Napoleon could say nothing; his actions had made that much crystal clear. _And Waverly doesn’t even know about the sleeplessness and the panic attacks_.

The chief of section one turned a page in the file he was holding. Napoleon had a sinking feeling. After the Brandywine affair, he’d been a prisoner of the Med section for two unbearable weeks until they’d seen fit, a week ago, to pronounce him still among the living, though ready for no more than desk duty.

Illya had been constantly at his side — not fussing or cossetting, simply, blessedly there — until the unreasoning fear subsided and rational thought returned. Almost immediately Mr. Waverly had assigned the Russian to another mission — Napoleon hadn’t been told what, or where. He understood why, but it galled him nonetheless.

Illya, gruff with embarrassment, had brought him a big stuffed white Russian wolf to keep him company while he was gone. When he’d pulled it out of the bag and shoved it unceremoniously at his partner, Napoleon had laughed for the first time in what felt like a year. It even had blue eyes. He’d immediately christened it Nick, and looking at it always made him grin. But he slept — when he slept — with the stuffed animal at his side.

“The medical section had suggested that these ... setbacks might occur,” Mr. Waverly went on as he perused the file. “They are to be expected when an agent undergoes an extended period of trauma. The physical injuries heal most cleanly...but then, you know that as well as anyone.”

“Yes sir,” Napoleon said, venturing, “I would strongly prefer not to be sent back to Medical, sir.” He tried a casual smile. “I sleep better in my own bed.” _Or, don’t sleep, as the case may be._ But he wasn’t about to say that.

“I was thinking of another approach,” Mr. Waverly said. “A kind of holiday.”

Napoleon blinked. “Holiday?”

“Fresh air and exercise,” Mr. Waverly said, in the stern tone he generally used to silence questions about missions. “The mountains, I should think. Colorado.”

“Colorado,” Napoleon echoed.

Mr. Waverly took out a brochure and spun the table around. At that point Napoleon realized the file Mr. Waverly held was not on him at all.

Napoleon read, “Sweet Pines Dude Ranch.” He looked at his superior. “Dude Ranch?”

“Yes. Do you good to be in the country for a week or so, I should think.”

At a loss, Napoleon opened the brochure, looking at the photos and reading the information. It was indeed, as the cover had proclaimed, a dude ranch, owned by a Josiah Cooper and offering riding, hiking, swimming, picnics and the usual dude ranch fare.

“Well, sir ... I’ll polish up my cowboy boots.”

“Do so. And while you’re there, take care to do some riding and hiking, particularly in the vicinity of a site called Blackrock Mine.”

“Blackrock Mine,” Napoleon echoed again, this time with a glimmer of comprehension. “So that’s why you called this a _sort_ of holiday.”

“Yes. We have reports of some strange magnetic disturbances in that area, a few mysteriously deceased animals, and known THRUSH scientists — particularly Dr. Onofrio, an electrophysicist — having been seen in Denver. About a month ago an agent from our Los Angeles office, Mary Meakin, posed as a vacationer at the dude ranch. She was killed in a rockslide near the mine.”

Napoleon nodded; his blood was starting to accelerate at the prospect of doing something, anything, even marginally useful. “When should I leave for vacation, sir?”

“Tomorrow, Mr. Solo. Keep in contact with us, please. Your mission is reconaissance only. Remember you’re still technically not fit for duty, and don’t do anything .... foolhardy.”

Soberly Napoleon said, “Yes sir. I don’t think I’m up for anything foolhardy anyway. Thank you sir,” he concluded. The words were heartfelt; he knew the old man was giving him a chance to heal without having to be under the thumb of the Medical section. The inherent risk was a measure of Waverly’s faith in his top agent, and Napoleon appreciated it.

Now that he was back to feeling the normal anxiety of partner for partner, rather than the near-panic that was the result of separation from the only person he trusted at a time of severe trauma, he felt safe in asking:

“How is Illya doing?” He knew better than to probe for details on the case, but hoped Mr. Waverly would at least answer that.

“His last communique was a week ago, Mr. Solo,” Mr. Waverly grated impatiently. “His mission is progressing, if slowly, and he inquired about your health.”

Napoleon let it go with a slight bow. “Thank you, sir. I’ll contact you when I reach the ... ah ... dude ranch.”

He caught the next flight to Denver, dozing fitfully on the plane. He was getting used to functioning on fitful dozes.

* * * *

At the Denver airport, a brunette, in her 20s, Napoleon guessed, greeted them alongside a battered paneled truck that said “Sweet Pine Ranch” on the door.

Napoleon and five other people — a young married couple and a woman with a boy, about 11, and a girl, about 6 — climbed into the van.

“Howdy, folks. I’m Jenny Cooper. Sweet Pine Ranch is my home, and I hope you’ll come to feel like it’s yours, too, while you’re there.” She smiled prettily at them, saw that everyone was loaded up, and climbed behind the wheel. “The ranch is a fair piece out of the city, so you all just relax.”

Napoleon had laid claim to the front seat, more because he hope to tickle some information out of the girl during the drive than because she was pretty, although that she certainly was.

The other guests began chatting amongst themselves. One ear tuned to their talk, Napoleon asked:

“Do you usually get a lot of guests this time of year?”

Jenny didn’t take her eyes — brown, Napoleon had noticed, and sparkling — from the road as they sped out of the city and into pleasant green countryside.

“We’re usually full up this time of year,” she said. “All the cabins and the rooms in the lodge.” Her smile had vanished. “We run a good ranch.”

“That’s what I heard,” Napoleon ventured. “That’s why I came.”

She favored him with a brief smile.

“But you’re not full up this year?” he pressed.

She tossed her head back, indicating the other passengers. “This is it.”

“Isn’t that strange?”  He waited, and when she showed no sign of volunteering information, added, “Is it because of the girl who was killed?”

Her hands tightened on the wheel. “Where are you from, Mr...?”

“Solo. Napoleon Solo. From New York.”

She sighed. “Bad news sure travels, doesn’t it? It was an accident. We live in the country. Accidents can happen.”

“They can also damage a business,” Napoleon said gently. She nodded.

“You said it. Mary was a nice lady. She went out alone. We advise all our guests not to go out alone. Snakes, stumbles, weather, getting lost...we don’t want to see any of that happen to any of our guests. But we can’t force them to abide by that.” She glanced at him again. “There are signs all around that area warning that it’s unstable. The mine hasn’t been worked in years.

“I grew up on the ranch. My uncle Josiah owns it. Things haven’t been that great in the last few years as it is. My sister had to drop out of school to come help — Uncle Jo’s our only family — she wasn’t happy about that. And now this.”

“I’m sorry for bringing it up,” he said.

“It’s all right. We aren’t trying to hide it. We couldn’t if we wanted to. People are going to talk about that sort of thing. But all the other guests went home early, and we’ve had a ton of cancellations. You’d think it was being shouted from the rooftops all over the country.”

“So we’re it?” Napoleon asked, indicating the other passengers.

Jenny forced a smile. “You’ll all get lots of personal attention.”

Napoleon smiled back. “This is my lucky day.”

 

Sweet Pine Ranch was exactly what the brochure advertised; a small, tidy ranch, set in a green valley with pine-studded hills all around, boasting several large ranch buildings and barns and a smattering of private cottages surrounding a lawn, all built in log-cabin style. The van passed the stables and some pole-fenced paddocks on the long dirt road that led to the main lodge. Half a dozen healthy-looking horses hung their heads over the fence to watch the van go by. The little girl and her brother pressed their noses against the window as they passed.

At the lodge Jenny quickly distributed sheets outlining the activities at the ranch and sorted the guests into their respective cabins, one-room units with comfortable beds, tables, chairs, and private baths.

The mom with her boy and girl, assigned the cabin next to Napoleon’s, walked past his open door as Napoleon was unpacking. He glanced up, smiled and waved, and they stopped to wave back.

“It’s certainly beautiful and peaceful here,” the woman said. “I’m Nan Green.” She was a redhead, medium height, about 35, with a face and figure more pleasant than actually pretty.

“Napoleon Solo,” he said, coming to the door. “Yes. A nice change from New York.”

She nodded. “I’m from Los Angeles.” Her son wandered away toward the corrals. The little girl, leaning on her mother’s side, spotted Nick, sitting on the bedside table.

“Ooh! Can I see your puppy?”

He picked up the stuffed wolf, held it out. “His name is Nick.”

She hugged the stuffed animal, patted its nose. “Where’d you get him? He’s so pretty.”

Napoleon smiled. “My best friend gave him to me.” The girl’s mother was looking at him, half smiling at his friendliness, and half puzzled as to why a grown man would be carrying around a stuffed animal. Napoleon offered her a grin.

“I was recovering from an illness,” he said. The confusion on her face cleared.

“I guess you’re not completely recovered yet,” she ventured in a kind tone.

“Does it show?” he asked. Strange; the bruises had mostly faded, and his clothes hid the worst injuries.

She nodded at Nick. “You brought him with you.”

Napoleon, caught, could only chuckle. “I suppose you’re right.”

She smiled. “I understand.”

Her tone and her eyes gave Napoleon an inkling as to why she was here sans husband. No wedding ring, so recent separation or divorce was the likely explanation.

“Here.” The little girl, with obvious reluctance, thrust Nick back at him. “He’s so pretty. I’d like a puppy.”

“I believe he’s a wolf, Tammy, not a puppy,” her mother corrected mildly.

Napoleon set Nick back on the table. “Your mother’s right. Wolves don’t make very good pets.” The association with Illya, who certainly bore captivity badly, made him smile to himself.

“You have one,” Tammy said, lower lip protruding.

“Nick is more of a ...guard wolf than a pet,” Napoleon said, thinking how much he’d be giving away if he weren’t talking to a 6-year-old.

She looked at him calmly. “Are you afraid of the dark too?”

“Sometimes,” he said.

“And he protects you?”

Napoleon nodded. “He protects me when my friend can’t be here to do it.”

She nodded, solemnly, and he realized she understood perfectly. Only children and spies believed in monsters, and knew that there really were reasons to be afraid of the dark.

A clanging noise filled the air.

“Air raid?” Napoleon theorized.

“Dinner bell, I’d guess,” Nan said.

He fingered the plain flannel shirt and cotton slacks he was wearing. “I haven’t even laid out my jacket.”

Nan smiled. “I don’t think it’s necessary to dress.”

Tammy waved as her mother drew her off in search of the boy. Napoleon scanned the small cabin out of habit, to be sure he’d left nothing incriminating in view, then shut the door and crossed to the tall wood-built lodge. It looked like a cross between a ski chalet and an Indian lodge.

Josiah and his nieces served the wholesome and filling dinner, then sat down with the guests at a long table laden with hot food and warm camaraderie. Two men — youngish, hardworking ranch hands by the look of them — came in a little late to join the crowd. Napoleon eyed them, thinking that the most likely position for a THRUSH to take if he wanted for some reason to infiltrate the ranch. Napoleon couldn’t imagine why, though. The place looked like a fading dude ranch, the people very ordinary. That was probably the reason THRUSH had begun whatever work they’d begun in this area — they’d thought it unlikely they’d be bothered out here in the middle of the country. Probably the only connection between the ranch and the mine was that the former was the only place for an agent to stay in order to investigate the latter.

He monitored the conversations and couldn’t detect any hints that anyone there was other than what he or she purported to be. Jenny’s sister shot down his idea about the ranch hands when she told him they’d both been with her uncle for more than five years. LeAnn, the elder sister who’d come home from college to help run the place, was a little shorter and less robust in physique than her sister. She had dark, almost black hair and quick brown eyes, and, unlike her chatty uncle and sister, spoke only when spoken to.

Another of Napoleon’s fledgling theories was shot down when he found out that Cooper didn’t own Blackrock Mine or any of the land around it. The mining corporation had sold it, they’d heard, some years ago, but nobody knew who to. The prevailing belief was that Mary Meakin had simply wandered off the marked trails around the ranch and tragically encountered a slide.

So far there was no reason to suppose anyone at the ranch had anything to do with whatever electronic devilry THRUSH was cooking up in the mines.

More tired than he would normally be after the flight, Napoleon decided to save his exploration of the mine and its environs for the next day. After dinner he instead took a walk around the ranch, more for therapy than reconnaissance — his knee, damaged in the Brandywine affair, ached.

“Are you sure it wasn’t a bad idea coming to a dude ranch with an injured leg, Mr. Solo?” a voice came at him out of the darkness as he was leaning on the corral fence gazing into the distance. He turned to see LeAnn walk up to him.

“It’ll be all right,” he said. “I just need to stretch it.”

She leaned on the fence beside him, a small trim shape in t-shirt and jeans, dark ponytail hanging down her back. She didn’t look like a college student; she looked like a cowgirl, like her sister.

“You grew up here, didn’t you?”

She nodded.

“How well do you know these hills?” he asked. She chuckled.

“Pretty well. Not as well as Uncle Jo or Jenny. They still ride out all the time, all over the place, exploring, marking out new trails, new places to picnic or hike.”

“You don’t?”

“Not any more. I rode out a lot as a kid, of course. There’s nothing else to do when you live on a ranch in the middle of nowhere.”

“But not any more?”

She shook her head, and her words were cold. “That’s no longer where my interest lies.”

“I’m sorry,” Napoleon said.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she went on, her tone less bitter. “I love Uncle Jo, and my sister. I just don’t want to spend my life out here soaping saddles and cleaning muck off my boots.”

“Big city, bright lights?” Napoleon said with a smile. She didn’t return it.

“Yes. I had it for two years, while I was in school. That’s the life I want. As soon as I can, I’m going back.”

“You’re fortunate to know what you want,” he said.

“You live in New York City, Mr. Solo?” She asked.

“It’s Napoleon, and yes.”

“Then you probably don’t know what it’s like to feel as if ...” She looked around, gestured broadly, hands flung out. “As if you’re cut off from the rest of the world. From human contact. From every interesting and exciting experience. They’re all out there and you can’t get to them.” She lowered her arms. “You’ve probably never felt trapped.”

Napoleon snorted a soft laugh. “Miss Cooper, I hope all your dreams come true.”

Peering up at him she said, “You’re making fun of me.”

“Oh no. It’s a policy of mine never to make fun of pretty girls.”

She grinned. “Unless they’ve already slapped your face?”

He laughed, but said, “A true gentleman would never be shaken out of his courtesy by so trivial a thing.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” she said, climbing up to sit on the top rail of the fence. That put her head above Napoleon’s.

“Why? Are you planning on slapping my face?”

“Planning?” she echoed. “No. Though it’s an option.”

He sketched a slight bow. “I like a lady who keeps her options open. Good night, Miss Cooper.”

“You can call me LeAnn,” she said. “Good night, Napoleon.”

She didn’t move from the fence, but he felt her eyes on him as he limped back to his cabin.

* * * *

Napoleon simply met his partner’s eyes, communicating many things, but not hope. He was unable to resist, to move, even to speak, as Brandywine raised the gun to his head.

Illya’s shout, “No!” was almost drowned out by the rush of the helicopter blades. Awakened by the anguish in that cry, Napoleon twisted. Brandywine fired and pain exploded in his shoulder as he toppled out the open door of the chopper. Illya dove toward him; Napoleon thudded into his partner and they both hit the ground.

The UNCLE sniper fired on the helicopter as it swooped away; the perspex bubble shattered, then the chopper wobbled and came down like a swatted mosquito, slapping into the rocky hillside next to the road, exploding in a ball of flame and black smoke.

Illya, cradling his partner’s body, got to his knees, checking Napoleon for bullet wounds and finding only a bloody burned crease across his left shoulder — a drop in the bucket of injuries he could see his partner had suffered.

Napoleon tried to sit up.

“It’s all right,” Illya said, pulling out his knife to cut the ropes binding his partner’s hands and feet. “You’re safe.” He helped his struggling partner upright, held his tense shoulders, looking for any sign of understanding in his face. “Napoleon?”

Napoleon stared at him through the poisoned haze of weeks of torture. Slowly, fearfully, other ideas came forward as he stared into pained blue eyes. Friendship. Trust. Safety. Illya.

Illya, faking calm to hide his anxiety, saw the cold vagueness in his partner’s eyes thaw, saw life return in the form of welling tears. The rocklike shoulders relaxed under his hands.

Napoleon whispered his partner’s name and slumped against him. Illya held him, unmoving, until the cleanup team arrived.

* * * *

Napoleon awoke with that feeling still warming his insides. For a moment he didn’t remember where he was. A coyote yipped outside and he started, then smiled. That was a hell of a reminder that he wasn’t in New York any more. The fire was down to embers, their red glow the only light. He’d forgotten how completely dark it got in the country at night.

Peering around the darkened cabin, he felt the distinct skin-crawling certainty of not being alone in the room. As whoever was there had already seen or heard him start at the coyote’s howl, he knew there was no point in pretending to still be asleep. Cold, every nerve, every pore buzzing, he reached a hand toward the lamp by the bedside, the other sliding under his pillow for his UNCLE special. His hand slid by something furry; he cursed under his breath as Nick fell to the floor. He turned the light on and sat up a little, hand still under the pillow, clutching his weapon.

“A little behind your usual response time.”

Illya sat crosslegged in the big overstuffed chair in front of the fire. Napoleon, tension draining from him instantly, let go of his gun and threw the pillow at his partner, who caught it deftly.

Napoleon sat against the headboard, watching Illya unfold himself, bring the pillow back, whump it into his face, then pick Nick up from the floor and put him back on the night stand.

“What the hell happened to you?” Napoleon asked, returning the pillow to its place atop his UNCLE special. His partner wore a too-large tan shirt, blue jeans and tennis shoes; his hair was startlingly long, accompanied by a light beard and wire-rimmed glasses. “You look like a hippie with a Ph.D. And that only because I know you have a Ph.D.”

Pushing his long locks out of his face, Illya gave him an arch look. “For your information, I am — I _was_ — an out of work electrical engineer named Barclay, with an estranged family, a lot of gambling debts, a drinking problem and a bad attitude toward authority,” he said, adding pointedly, “in Denver.”

Napoleon nodded; much was becoming clearer. “Now?”

“I’m no longer out of work.”

Napoleon harrumphed. “THRUSH must not be very picky.”

“THRUSH has a different set of employment qualifications than most firms,” Illya countered, unoffended. “I’m working on a special microwave transmitter, along with three other engineers and Dr. Onofrio. They haven’t told me exactly what we’re transmitting or why, though I have some suspicions. They feed me and give me a cot to sleep on, and if they knew I was sneaking out of the installation every few days they’d kill me now, rather than when the project is completed, which is expected to be in a couple of weeks.” He went to the window, peeked out through the slit in the curtains.

“So why are you sneaking out? Not that I’m complaining about the company,” Napoleon hastened to add. He was very glad to see his partner.

“Because I can’t transmit a report to Mr. Waverly from inside the complex. There’s a radius of intereference, about a mile. I finished with my report a little while ago and Mr. Waverly told me you were here.” He glanced sidelong at his partner, clearly not wanting to make him uncomfortable by any too-direct scrutiny. “How are you?”

Napoleon wanted to say fine, but Illya wouldn’t buy it.

“Better,” he said finally.

“At least you were sleeping,” his partner said, gazing at the stuffed wolf as he adjusted it slightly on the bedside table.

“How did you know I hadn’t been ..?” Napoleon sat up straighter, glaring at his partner.

Illya looked at him. “I didn’t _know_.”

Napoleon snarled. “Sneaky Russian. You sicced that mangy cur on me as a spy, didn’t you?”

His partner smiled. “He’s good, isn’t he? Never blinks, never sleeps, and you cannot make him talk, even with the most sophisticated interrogation methods.”

“And little girls fall in love with him instantly,” Napoleon added. “He’s just like you. Except he eats less. A _lot_ less.”

Illya threw him a disgusted look. “When you’re through abusing me, would you like to hear what I’ve learned, at great peril to my life?”

Napoleon pulled up his knees and patted the bed. “Have a seat. I love scary stories.”

Illya sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed.

 

“I’ll give you a precis of what I told Mr. Waverly: They’ve built a small but technologically advanced broadcast station in the old mine, with a retractable antenna on top of the mountain. They don’t broadcast constantly, but the machinery generates a field that interferes with radio communication and phone lines. They’re having a hard time keeping in touch with one another inside the complex. I haven’t had a chance yet to analyze the frequencies and intensity to form some idea of their intent, but I doubt they’re planning to broadcast a new radio show. I think they must intend some sort of destructive electromagnetic broadcast, a microave frequency that will harm humans in some way.”

“Yes, Mr. Waverly said some animals had been killed and no one knew how.”

“They were testing it. Range and precision are the main problems now.”

Napoleon rested his chin on his knees, feeling the pull on his back from the half-healed cuts and welts. “If they’re only killing animals and not people ...”

“Birds, dogs and cats,” Illya specified. “It takes either more intensity, duration, or both to kill something larger. If horses or cows or people start dying ...”

Napoleon nodded. “How can I get in touch with you if that does start to happen?”

“You can’t. I’ll come out again in ...” He considered, peering into the distance through the wire-rimmed glasses. Napoleon smiled.

“In 24 hours, or if I can’t make it in 24, in 48 hours. What’s funny?” he concluded.

Napoleon shook his head, reached out and flicked a lock of blond hair lying on his partner’s shoulder. “You. The new look. Intellectual derelict. It suits you.”

Illya rolled his eyes. “Have you found out anything?”

“No. Everyone here seems puzzled by the dead animals, puzzled by Mary Meakin’s death. There’s no sign of any unexplained wealth, the family doesn’t, and didn’t, own the mountain. They’ve lived here for years. If there’s any connection other than proximity, I haven’t found it yet.”

“All right.” Illya got up. “Be careful. Stay away from the mine. Don’t worry if you don’t hear from me this time tomorrow. There are guards. I might have trouble getting away.”

Napoleon nodded. His partner went to the window at the back that overlooked a creek, peered out, opened it and started to climb out.

“Illya...”

The Russian paused on the window ledge.

Napoleon, feeling foolish, prodded the stuffed wolf. “Nothing against Nick — he’s a good watchdog and all — but...”

Illya smiled his rare, warm smile. “I’ll be careful.”

“Good. See you.”

And Illya was gone, easing the window down behind him.

* * * *

The next day the entire group rode out with Jenny and LeAnn as their escorts, taking a path north through pine forests toward the mountains. Napoleon spent the first hour refamiliarizing himself with something he hadn’t done since he was a kid. His horse was a muscled buckskin with a slightly stubborn temperament that didn’t mesh well with Napoleon’s stiff manner of riding.

LeAnn rode alongside on a tall, graceful chestnut, offering occasional horsemanship hints and laughing at his awkwardness in a fairly kind way.

“What on earth possessed you to come here?” she asked some time later. The group had spread out as they crossed a lushly grassed meadow. Napoleon squinted ahead, past where Jenny was leading the group, to the tree-carpeted hills. One of those was Blackrock Mountain.

“I wanted to breathe fresh air and get some exercise,” he said. “Does that seem so strange?”

She was looking at him in frank curiosity. “You just don’t seem like the type.”

He looked down at himself. “Timid, fussy, out-of-shape city boy?” The buckskin snorted as if in cynical agreement. “Oh shut up,” he muttered. One black-tipped ear flicked back at him.

LeAnn shook her head. “Not at all. I can see you’re not out of shape and I can tell you’re not timid. You just don’t seem like the type who would prefer his pleasures ... rustic.”

He smiled. “Maybe I have unplumbed depths.”

She laughed delightfully. “That I believe.”

“I suspect you have as well,” he said, and her smile faded.

“If I stay here, I’ll never know.”

“But you don’t plan to stay here,” he said.

She shook her head adamantly. He took in the resentment in her face and filed it under ‘potential reasons for selling out to THRUSH,’ but he realized it might be no more than youthful dissatisfaction with a narrow life.

He scanned the surrounding hills. “You probably know every inch of this country.”

She looked around absently. “I know it pretty well.”

“Where’s the place where the woman was killed in the landslide?” he asked. She shot him a sharp look, and he shrugged.

“Sorry. Morbid curiosity.”

She pointed to the tallest hill, last in a line running south, no more than a couple of miles distant. “That’s Blackrock Mountain. The mine is there. You don’t want to go out there. It’s very dangerous.”

“So I’ve heard,” he said meekly. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of being so discourteous as to die on your land and ruin your business.”

“The mine’s not on our land,” she said.

“Oh, that’s right. Someone said something about that last night.” Taking a chance, he went on, “One of the ranch hands also said something about your chickens dying. Some mystery illness.”

She looked at him blankly.

“Hope it isn’t catching,” he said with a harmless smile.

She returned the smile. “It was probably something they ate.”

“I’ll stay away from the chicken feed.”

She drew her horse up where the path forked. “I have something I need to do. Stick with the others.” She waved toward her sister and the rest of the guests, taking the eastward path. “It was a pleasure talking to you ... Napoleon.” She set her heels to her mount and it sprang into a trot. The buckskin bounced, eager to follow. Napoleon held him in and watched until horse and girl disappeared into the trees, heading west, toward Blackrock Mountain.

* * * *

The transmitting complex reminded Illya of a ship; small, metal-walled and claustrophobic. The largest room was the lab, containing the transmitter and associated equiment. Four corridors branched off it, leading to the tiny rooms that served as storage, kitchens, offices, bedrooms and the like.

After a poor night’s sleep Illya lingered over breakfast in what he thought of as the galley, watching the other engineers file off to the main lab one by one. He got himself another cup of coffee and considered.

After a day spent poking into everything and trying to sabotage the machine in as delicate a manner as possible, he hadn’t been able to slip off to meet Napoleon last night. That didn’t worry him, as he’d had little new information to report. But it meant he had to get out tonight if he didn’t want Napoleon coming in after him — which was as certain as sunrise, no matter how traumatized Napoleon remained after the Brandywine affair.

His attention flowed, as naturally as water downhill, from the mission to his partner.

He knew Napoleon wasn’t sleeping. He knew about the panic attacks. The last thing he’d shared with his partner in New York was his confidence that those things would pass, that he knew, that he’d been there. That he still trusted his partner. Everything Napoleon had said when it had happened to him.

He reminded Napoleon of that, too, to silence his doubts. His partner’d fallen silent, and Illya had taken advantage of that to shove the stupid stuffed wolf at him. The look on Napoleon’s face was a moment Illya knew he would remember for a long time.

Illya finished his coffee and headed for the main lab, as always slowing his walk when he neared the door to see if he could overhear anything of use. They were planning to test the transmitter on a larger target soon. Dr. Onofrio was confident he’d gotten the power and accuracy to the point that soon THRUSH could make use of the machine. On people. The only thing Illya couldn’t seem to find out was what people.

The other engineers were gathered around the power unit comparing notes — goofing off, really, waiting for Dr. Onofrio to arrive.

“Whatsisname fixed it. You know, the hippie.”

“Hippie?”

“Yeah. Little mousy guy. Knows his way around a transmitter, though. Barclay, that’s his name.”

“He’s a drunk.”

“So what? He works better drunk than you do sober.”

Illya smiled to himself. He’d managed to sneak in a fifth of cheap whisky to gargle with every morning, maintaining the illusion. So far none of his colleagues seemed to care; at least, none had reported his drinking to security.

“Asshole. Watch it or I’ll tell the new security chief on you.”

“Big deal.”

“It is a big deal, dumb shit. Guess who they sent from Central this morning?”

“Who?”

“Trent.”

“Son of a bitch!”

“So you just watch your mouth.”

Illya drew away from the door and inhaled, sighing. Wonderful. Roland Trent. One of THRUSH’s top security men and an expert in what THRUSH called interrogation and human beings called torture. Illya remembered him well — worse, Trent would have good cause to remember Illya from their last encounter.

Illya headed for his cubicle, wondering if it was time to call it a day. The complex was small, the chance of avoiding the new security chief for any length of time nil. If he just disappeared his cover, and probably UNCLE’s, would be blown, but if he met Trent it’d be blown anyway. At least they knew enough to take the installation out. If he got out now, they could send in a demolition team before THRUSH could moved all the equipment to a new site.

Illya came around a corner and stopped _. Why does Napoleon have all the luck in this partnership?_

The man before him stopped as well. Tall, he had cropped pepper-and-salt hair and shallow black eyes, now wide with astonishment.

“Trent,” Illya said. The THRUSH security expert reached for his gun. Illya struck with a front kick to Trent’s sternum, followed by a roundhouse kick to the head as Trent doubled over. The security chief bounced off the wall and Illya moved in, grabbing his head.

A rifle cracked and a hammerblow struck his shoulder, spinning him around. He hit the floor hard on his back, stunned, and a quartet of blue-clad THRUSH guards approached, rifles trained on him. One of them went to steady Trent, still doubled over, gasping for air. His black eyes locked onto Illya.

“Kuryakin,” he hissed. “You son of a bitch.” He straightened up with an effort, shouted, “Put him in a cell!”

They carried him to a room distinguished from his sleeping cubicle only by the fact that the door was locked behind them. Shoulder throbbing, he sat on the cot and pulled off his shirt to check the wound.

The bullet had taken a decent chunk out of his upper arm in passing through. He ripped the sleeves from his shirt and bandaged himself as well as he could. He was tying the knot with one hand and his teeth when Trent came into the cell, flanked by two blue coveralls with rifles.

He looked the agent up and down and tsked.

“I can’t believe UNCLE permits such sloppiness in its employees.”

Illya met his gaze. “My last paycheck was signed by THRUSH.”

“Pity you won’t have a chance to cash it.” He crossed his arms, smiling. “Illya Kuryakin. I’m very glad to see you again. Although I imagine _you’re_ wishing you’d gotten out of here before I arrived.”

“On the contrary,” Illya said, “I wish we’d met a little sooner.”

“Oh? Why?”

“I’d have had that extra second I needed to break your neck.”

Trent’s eyes narrowed, but he smiled. “I’m going to break every bone in your body, Kuryakin. And that’s just to get myself warmed up. You’re going to live long enough to know pain more intimately than anyone has ever known it.”

Illya sat back slowly against the wall. He wished he didn’t know for a fact that Trent could back up his words. He was no match for Illya in unarmed combat, but he had a genius for torture.

“Perhaps we could come to an agreement,” he said.

Trent smirked. “You have nothing I want.”

“The day and time that UNCLE is going to destroy this installation?”  It was a bluff, but worth a try. “I assume you would prefer to be gone by the time this place goes up in smoke.”

Trent considered briefly, shook his head. “I’ll get everything you know out of you anyway. Last time we met, you left me for dead. This time I’m going to make you wish you were. And then you will be.” He waved the guards out. “I’ll be back.” He shut the door. Illya listened to the clang of the lock, feeling keenly the tons of rock between him and freedom.

He wished he hadn’t told Napoleon not to worry if he didn’t see him last night. A great deal of pain could be inflicted in 24 hours. He had a sick feeling he was going to find out exactly how much.

* * * *

The third morning Napoleon decided to take his sore behind and legs out for a ride a little closer to the mine. He’d waited until past midnight for Illya, a little concerned because that was his resting state, but not actively worried. That could wait until tonight, if his partner didn’t come to see him. He’d found it strangely comforting to see a sunset with the knowledge that he had no intention of trying to force sleep.

Crossing the road he saw Jenny at the barn and headed that way, wondering if he could talk her into guiding him to the site where Mary Meakin was killed.

Jenny pulled the barn door open and a sleek black Corvette roared out of the darkness in a cloud of dust and hay. The car zoomed past Napoleon and up the road. To his surprise, LeAnn was driving it.

He met Jenny at the barn, waved at the swirling cloud of dung-scented dust the car had raised.

“Nice car.”

Jenny shook her head, smiling. “It sure is.”

“I don’t mean to pry, but how can she afford that when she can’t even afford to go to school?”  He rubbed his nose, sneezed.

Jenny said, “Bless you. I asked her that and she wouldn’t tell me. I don’t know what’s going on with her.”

“What does your uncle think?”

“He thinks she has a rich boyfriend she doesn’t want to tell us about.”

Napoleon thought Uncle Josiah was a pretty wise man.

Jenny blushed. “Maybe, you know, if he’s married...”

Napoleon nodded. Maybe married, maybe THRUSH. It was a bit of a coincidence, but she was a pretty girl and might have attracted some wealthy man’s interest during her time at school. That would partly account for her resentment at being cloistered away here.

“Jenny, has anyone offered to buy the ranch recently?”

The change of subject stopped her for a moment. “Yeah. How did you know that?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t. Listen, I’d like to take a ride a little closer to Blackrock Mine. But I don’t want to get too close,” he lied, seeing her alarm. “Would you mind going with me to see that I don’t get into too much trouble?”

“Look, I don’t know what you’re planning on doing—”

“Jenny,” he said. “It’s important or I wouldn’t ask.” He held her gaze, watched her irritation and doubt waver. “Please?”

She scanned the vicinity as if for witnesses. “All right. I’ll take you to where you can see it. But we’re not going onto the mine property.”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Fair enough. Thank you.”

She beckoned him to follow her into the barn. “Let’s saddle up.”

 

As they rode, Napoleon pressed for more information about the recent purchase offer.

“I don’t know anything about the company that offered to buy the place. Uncle Jo said no. He said it was some big firm that ran dude ranches across the country.” She shrugged. “It was a lot of money, he said. But he was born here and he wants to die here.”

Gently Napoleon said, “What about you?”

She looked around at the encircling mountains, verdant under a clear sky. “I don’t know. I love it here. But sometimes ... LeAnn talks about Los Angeles, you know, all the things there are to do. People.” She squinted at him sideways. “Sometimes I think I’d like to see that too.”

“You can if you want to,” Napoleon said.

“Not until we’re back on our feet here so Uncle Jo can hire a couple more hands.”  She shook her reins. “Feeling up to a bit of a canter?”

“Argh...” Napoleon moaned theatrically. “Must we?”

“If you want to see Blackrock Mine and get back in time for lunch,” she said, grinning.

“You talked me into it.”

 

They rode up the mountain along a narrow, steep path through close-pressing trees. It was cool under the trees, and the piney air was refreshing. It would have been pleasant if not for Napoleon’s anxiety.

Eventually they came out of the woods onto a rocky ridge. Jenny pulled up and pointed across a shallow valley to a treeless strip of mountainside, rock and dirt with a narrow road winding up it, ending at a black rectangle.

“That’s the main entrance to the mine,” she said. “You can see how the mountainside is. Whenever it rains, even a little, we get slides in this area.”

Napoleon looked down at the foot of the mountain and saw the mounds of dirt, clear evidence of the most recent slide. They’d found Mary Meakin and her horse under tons of it. He shook his head. He didn’t know how THRUSH had engineered the slide at the perfect time, but he had no doubt that they had done it.

“My sister used to love riding up the mountain,” Jenny said. “When Mary died ... it was like the mountain had betrayed her. We were all upset. Shocked, you know. But she really took it hard.”

“No wonder she doesn’t ride out anymore,” Napoleon said.

“LeAnn?” Jenny looked at him. “She rides out all the time.”

“She said she doesn’t,” Napoleon countered.

Jenny shook her head, emphatic. “She rides out nearly every day. Why would she say that?” She paused, eyes wider. “Do you think she’s meeting ... you know, the man who gave her the car?”

Napoleon scanned the mountainside. “I think she may be.”

* * * *

LeAnn walked with Leonard along the metal corridors toward his office, thinking about how much she hated this creepy place where he worked. She glanced up at him. Tall, grey haired, distinguished looking. Elegant and romantic, for all that he was 30 years her senior. He’d been very generous to her, always kind, but mysterious. She had no idea what he really did or how he came by the money he lavished on her. She didn’t much care. But she hated coming down here.

“Dr. Onofrio.”

A man she hadn’t seen before came out of an office. Leonard stopped. The man looked at her, a searching look that quickly turned dismissive as he returned his gaze to Leonard.

“I’m Trent. Security. I’m sorry to inform you you’re going to be short one engineer from now on.”

“What?” Leonard’s brows shot up, then down. “Which one?”

“I believe you know him as Barclay,” Trent said.

“Barclay...” Leonard echoed. The name rang a bell for LeAnn. After a moment she said, surprised:

“Oh, the blond one?”

Leonard looked at her. “You know him?”

“No, I don’t know him.” She felt her face heat. “I saw him, that’s all.” Leonard continued to glare at her; resentful at being questioned, she said, “He’s cute, okay? He’s good-looking. I noticed him. That’s all.”

“In any case,” Trent went on heavily. “He’s an UNCLE agent.”

LeAnn felt Leonard stiffen beside her.

“It’s under control, doctor,” Trent said.

Leonard took hold of her arm. “My dear, go on ahead to my office. I’ll only be a moment. You know the way.”

LeAnn started up the corridor.

Watching her, Trent said, low, “I’ve already started on him. I’ll send what’s left of him back to UNCLE in a paper bag. But they probably know about this place now. We need to clear out.”

“We’re nearly done.” 

“You can finish up somewhere else. Somewhere UNCLE doesn’t know about.”

“Very well.” Dr. Onofrio gazed at LeAnn’s shapely backside as she walked away. He sneered. “‘Cute. Good-looking.’“ He glanced at Trent. “Take care of that, will you?”

Trent chuckled. “Sure.”

* * * *

They got back to the ranch a little after noon. Napoleon saw LeAnn’s Corvette in the barn when they put up their horses, but she wasn’t inside when they went into the lodge. Everyone else was there, but no one was eating. They all stood in the big cozy common room, Uncle Josiah in the middle. One of the ranch hands — Napoleon couldn’t call to mind his name — was absent.

“What’s going on?” Jenny asked as they approached.

“Jenny hon,” Josiah said, “Johnny’s ... he’s dead.”

Jenny stopped. Napoleon scanned the faces of the others: the young couple, Nan and her kids, the other ranch hand whose name he couldn’t recall. All of them were white-faced in shock — except the children, who were too young to be anything but confused by all the upset.

“What happened?” Jenny asked, still too surprised for tears.

“We don’t know. Gary was with him—” Josiah indicated the other ranch hand— “up on the north ridge, checking the firebreak up there.” He looked at Gary. The young man was pale, eyes wide with shock and puzzlement.

“We got down to stretch our legs, and all of a sudden...he just froze up. He started to shake, all over. I never seen anybody shake like that. And his skin got dark, like bruises, and then he fell over.”

“Did you hear anything?” Napoleon asked. “See anything strange?”

Gary looked at him. “No, but my hair was standin’ up on end. The air felt like ... I don’t know. Right before a thunderstorm. Only no clouds. Hot and heavy and ... strange.”

“Everyone take it easy,” Josiah said as the murmuring increased. “We’ve phoned the police in Denver and they’re on their way. Poor Johnny must’ve had some kind of seizure or something. Poor kid. These things happen.” He patted Gary on the shoulder and started to lead him away, saying over his shoulder, “Lunch is ready if anyone still is up for eatin’.”

The group broke up, the young couple and Nan and her kids going into the dining room. Napoleon wondered if he should ask to take a look at the body, but he didn’t have the expertise to determine more than he’d just been told, and in any case he doubted he’d garner any response beyond a demand that he pack his bags and leave.

Jenny gave Napoleon a very curious look. “You know something about this, don’t you?”

He said nothing.

“You were hardly even surprised,” she accused. “What’s going on?”

“Jenny,” he said, “if I could tell you I would. Just hold on a little while.” He patted her arm and left the lodge, heading for his cabin. There he pulled out his communicator.

“Open Channel D.”

* * * *

LeAnn waited in Leonard’s office for a half an hour before she got bored and decided to go find him. It was bad enough having to ride all the way out here and crawl through tunnels like a rat; she didn’t do all that just so she could stare at the walls.

The workers and security guards she passed gave her curious stares but left her alone; Leonard had made it clear that her presence was permitted, so they never bothered her.

A sharp slapping sound — then a gasp — drew her attention. She crept forward toward an open door, jumping at each repeated slap, each soft cry that followed like an echo. She peered around the corner to see Trent’s back. He held a whip in his upraised hand. She saw his shoulder muscles bunch as he brought it down on —

— a small man, held hanging between two big sweating security men, stripped to the waist, skin spattered with black bruises and crisscrossed with welts and thin bleeding cuts.

His body jumped under the blow and Trent moved forward, grasping a handful of blond hair to lift his face, revealing split, bruised cheeks and a swollen, bleeding mouth.

“It’s a little warm in here, isn’t it, Kuryakin? Maybe you’d like some water?”

Dazed blue eyes opened, glaring at Trent; the battered mouth moved and he spat blood at the THRUSH security chief. Trent dropped his head and backhanded him.

“Oh my God...” LeAnn breathed, backing away. It was Barclay.

Trent whirled. His face was flushed, sweaty, his eyes burning.

“What are you doing here?”

LeAnn bumped into the wall behind her, shaking her head. “I ... nothing ...”

He advanced on her, snarling a curse, and lifted one hand. She cowered, but he hesitated, clenching his upraised fist. Then he dropped his arm, waving dismissively.

“Get out of here, little girl.”

She glared at him, then turned. Trent watched her run down the corridor, then turned back to Illya, who was trying to raise his head, to see what was coming next.

Trent planted his hands on his hips. “Bones, I think. We’ll start small.”

LeAnn rounded the corner, caught herself against a wall, covered her mouth and burst into tears. Then she scanned the empty corridor and headed for Leonard’s private exit.

* * * *

Mr. Waverly was as businesslike as ever.

“We’ll send a team immediately, but our nearest demolitions team is in Los Angeles. It will be several hours before they can arrive.”

“Sir...” Napoleon hesitated. He knew exactly what his chief would say. He also knew what he had to say. “Sir, there’s a good chance Illya’s been spotted. He was supposed to communicate with me last night. I’d like to see if I can get inside the complex and —”

“Negative, Mr. Solo. You’re an observer on this mission. Mr. Kuryakin has proven reasonably adept at taking care of himself. You will wait for the demolitions team and direct them to the installation.”

Napoleon clenched his teeth, staring at Nick. “Yes sir.”

“Mr. Solo.” There was a hint of weary impatience in Mr. Waverly’s tone. “Be so good as to follow orders, or I might find myself thinking you aren’t fit for duty after all.”

_Take a deep breath. Wrestle your tone of voice into something less insubordinate_. “Yes sir.”

“Waverly out.”

Napoleon went outside and stood on the wooden porch, staring up at Blackrock Mountain. Illya was up there ... maybe figuring out a way to destroy the transmitter. Maybe in trouble. He had no way of knowing, and it ate at him. He started to consider the several-hour wait for the demolitions team, but it was a lost cause. There was no way he could sit for hours and do nothing. Maybe if he rode out to the area and scouted around he could find some way in...

A horse and rider burst through the trees and up the road toward the house. LeAnn. Napoleon came out and met her, taking her horse’s head as she drew up. Red-faced, she flung herself from the animal and started to run, but he caught her arm.

“What’s wrong?”

She glared up at him. She was obviously frightened, and had been crying. She wrenched her arm out of his grasp. “Leave me alone.”

“LeAnn.” He caught her again, a firmer grip, hard enough to hurt.

“Ow! Let go!”

“LeAnn.” He released the fractious horse, which trotted off toward the barn, and took hold of her other arm. “Listen to me. Have you been up at the mine?”

She stopped struggling.

“LeAnn. What’s happening up there?”

She drew in a shuddering breath. “I don’t know. Some machine. Leonard ... he takes me in there sometimes.”

“Leonard Onofrio?” Napoleon asked.

Her eyes widened. “How did you know?”

“LeAnn, tell me what’s happened.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. One of the engineers...they’re—” She shivered, began to cry again. “Oh my God.” She stared up at Napoleon through tear-blurred, imploring eyes, and alarm jolted him. “They’re beating him. To-torturing him. I saw it. Then I ran.” She lowered her head, sobbing.

He shook her, not gently. “LeAnn, listen to me. I need to get in there. Can you show me the way in?”

She shook her head, nearly hysterical, and he drew her in, holding her, letting her sob, clamping his will down on the urgency burning in his stomach. After a few endless minutes she calmed, relaxing in his arms, and he drew back.

“LeAnn, I need you to show me the way in. It’s important. Lives are at stake.”

She blinked up at him. “I never go in the main entrance. Leonard has me go in ... another way. He has a private entrance, around the other side of the mountain, near the loading docks.”

“Take me there,” Napoleon ordered. “Is there a car here we can take?”

“There’s Uncle Jo’s jeep. But we can’t get all the way up the mountain in a car,” she said. “Not unless you want to drive up to the loading docks, and that’s on the other side of the mountain.”

“It’ll still be faster. Wait.”

Napoleon ducked back into his cabin and pulled out his communicator.

“Open Channel D.”

He briefed Mr. Waverly while collecting a number of items of mayhem, including extra clips.

“Very well, Mr. Solo.” Waverly’s permission was grudging, as if he thought Napoleon had engineered the situation simply in order to rescue his partner. “Go see what you can salvage of this. If it looks as though they’re going to get away with that transmitter, destroy it.”

“Yes sir.” Napoleon signed off,  then gave Nick a quick pat on the head for luck and ran out, locking the door. “Let’s go.”

 

They drove out along the dirt road Napoleon and Jenny had travelled by horseback earlier in the day; a four-wheel drive vehicle was necessary to get them over tree roots and branches, through sharp-sided creeks and up the steep mountainside, none of which had caused the horses any difficulty. LeAnn drove as fast as she could, which wasn’t very fast over the rough terrain. Napoleon leaned forward, clinging to the side of the jeep with one hand and the windshield frame with the other, peering ahead through the trees, looking for the mine entrance.

“What can you tell me about this place?” he asked.

“Nothing. They work on some machine. Leonard and a few other men, scientists. And some guards and stuff. There are three ways in: the main entrance, the loading door on the other side of the mountain, and the little door we’re going to. The other two are guarded.”

She stopped in the trees and turned off the jeep, pointing. “Up there. See between those boulders? I ride up here and that’s where he meets me. There’s a metal door.”

“No guards here?” Napoleon asked.

She shrugged. “There never have been. I knock and Leonard is waiting for me on the other side with a flashlight. There’re no lights in that tunnel yet.”

Napoleon climbed out of the jeep, landing awkwardly on the uneven ground; his twisted knee shrieked at him, and he steadied himself on the van.

“Wait here.”

She stared at him a moment. “I should come with you. I can show you where he is. I even know where the guard uniforms are kept.”

“It’s dangerous,” he said, scanning the mountainside. It didn’t appear they kept any outside watch ... how had they known Mary Meakin was coming?

She got out of the jeep. “It’ll go faster if I help. Come on, before I lose my nerve.” She started marching up the mountainside.

 

A small explosive took care of the lock. He pulled the door open, gun at the ready, LeAnn shielded behind him.

The square opening yawned black. Cold air washed over him, stealing breath and thought and momentum. Napoleon stopped as something unfamiliar welled up inside him, grabbing his intestines, twisting them.

Fear.

He inhaled shakily, feeling the cold sweat on his face. It was the darkness. Too much like the pit Brandywine had kept him in, had hurt him in, pain stabbing at him in the dark. He never knew when, never knew what it would be, never could see it coming...

_Stop it!_

His heart fluttered in his chest. The pain was more than memory — he felt each stab, each blow, each electric shock again. The dark had left him defenseless, unable to prepare, to steel himself. Near the end he had wept, more than once, uncaring of witnesses. Brandywine, deeming him broken, had at last opened the cage and let light shine on Napoleon — and the light itself was pain.

Trembling, he closed his eyes, leaning on the rough rock wall. He’d been close to death numerous times, but never closer than that. Nothing stood between him and the final gloom but Illya.

Always Illya.

“God _damn_ it.” He clenched his fists, hammered one hand against the rock. _Illya is in there. He’s in there, and he needs you._

“Napoleon...” LeAnn touched his arm tentatively. “What’s wrong?”

 Napoleon forced his eyes open. “Nothing.” He scrubbed the sweat from his face, drew his UNCLE Special and flung himself into the darkness. “Stay behind me.”

* * * *

“What are you doing?”

Dr. Onofrio stopped in the open doorway and Trent turned to face him, fists and uniform streaked with blood. Passion glazed his black eyes. Dr. Onofrio shuddered.

“My job,” Trent said, his voice machinelike. “What do you want?”

“Why did you leave the door open? The girl is here.”

“I needed the air. She was here. I sent her to your office.”

Dr. Onofrio started. “She’s not there. I’ve just come from there.”

The glazed expression faded from Trent’s eyes.

Dr. Onofrio said, “I need your help to move equipment. Leave him.”

Trent turned back to Illya, hanging between the two guards. Trent nodded and they let him drop, both men distastefully wiping spatters of blood from their hands and faces.

Illya curled up slowly, cradling his right hand. Trent looked down at him.

“I’ll be back,” he said.

“Hurry,” Dr. Onofrio urged.

* * * *

A rectangle of white light and a faint humming beckoned at the end of the corridor.

Napoleon slid against the metal wall and moved forward. The chamber ahead was large, almost filled by the tall machine that hummed and glowed. Above it a metal-sheathed funnel rose; a skeletal broadcast antenna poked about 10 feet up into it. Three other corridors led away from the room.

“That’s the machine,” LeAnn whispered. Napoleon didn’t bother to reply.

“The uniform closet is down here,” she said, pulling him along the wall and into another corridor.

Inside she turned her back while he quickly traded his dude ranch finery for the all too familiar THRUSH blue coverall, tucking his tiny weapons into the uniform’s pockets.

“Is it usually this quiet?” he asked.

“No. Usually they’re working on the machine. They always leave it on, though. I don’t know why. Maybe they’re all at dinner,” she suggested feebly.

“Does Dr. Onofrio know that you left?” Napoleon asked, zipping up the uniform and sliding his gun behind the belt.

She shrugged. “Probably, by now. Why?”

“It doesn’t matter.” He listened at the door a moment, then cracked it and peered out. “Show me where they were keeping the prisoner.”

She started to run, and he caught her. “No. Calmly. Like you belong here.”

She stopped. “Okay.”

They moved along a couple of corridors, worryingly deserted. Could they possibly all have gone, leaving the device on and functional? Could it be a trap? Napoleon doubted there had been time for that, but he didn’t know how prepared THRUSH was to simply blow the place up if discovered.

LeAnn stopped, one hand rising to her mouth. “It’s there.” She pointed to a door.

Napoleon tried the handle. Locked. He used another small explosive to destroy the lock, then opened the door. LeAnn stayed back, where she couldn’t see.

The room was small, without furniture. Illya lay on his right side, bare to the waist, in a corner, his bruised, bloody face against the metal floor. His right hand curled limp against his body, fingers blue and swollen to nearly twice their normal size. On his left shoulder a bullet crease still oozed blood.

Napoleon slid his gun into his belt with damnably unsteady fingers and knelt before his partner. His torso was black and blue where it wasn’t red. His blue jeans were blood-spattered but his lower body seemed uninjured. Napoleon took gentle hold of his partner’s upper arms to lift him, but at the touch Illya flinched away, eyes snapping open.

“It’s OK,” Napoleon said. “I’m here.”

The wild light dimmed in the blue eyes. “Napoleon.”

“In the flesh.” He carefully pulled Illya upright, forcing his movements to remain calm and gentle in spite of the rage blazing along his nerve endings. “How bad is it, and who do I have to kill?”

Illya’s swollen face shifted in what Napoleon guessed was a faint smile. “It’s not ... too bad.” He lifted his swollen right hand. “Very few ... broken bones.”

“Jesus.” Napoleon blinked, forced a lighter tone out of his closed throat. “I can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?”

“This took ... more than a minute,” Illya whispered. Sick with anger — and guilt; he should have come sooner, he _knew_ there was trouble, goddamn it — Napoleon slid his hand behind his partner’s neck, steadying him. Illya met his eyes and shook his head.

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?” Napoleon tried to find the least painful way of getting his partner upright, finally settling on lifting him from the hips.

“You know what,” Illya said, a touch of impatience in his hoarse voice. “Stop feeling guilty.”

“Make me,” Napoleon snapped, pulling Illya’s left arm over his shoulders. “OK, hang on.”

Illya couldn’t remain silent as Napoleon lifted him bodily to his feet.

“Sorry,” Napoleon said at his partner’s groan. “We have to move. What happened to your hand?”

Illya kept it protectively close to his body. “Trent,” he said thickly.

“Son of a bitch.” Napoleon put an arm around his partner’s waist, seeking in vain to avoid any welts or bruises or lacerations. “This is going to hurt. I’m sorry. But we have to get out of here.” He felt Illya flinch under the firm grasp necessary for Napoleon to help him out of the room, but Illya whispered:

“Let’s go.”

LeAnn had gone down the hall toward the machine; now she came hurrying back.

“They came and got some boxes — two of the men who work for Leonard. I think they’re leaving.” She glanced back nervously, then looked, squint-eyed in appallment, at Illya.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Is he badly hurt?”

Illya lifted his head, peering at her, glazed. Then he blinked. “The transmitter.”

The words came muffled through his swollen lips. Napoleon took as much of his partner’s weight as possible, drew his gun with his free hand, and moved down the corridor.

The big room was still deserted. Illya gestured with his good hand toward the back of the machine, where several open panels revealed its guts. The space between machine and wall was no more than three feet.

“Mr. Waverly wants it destroyed,” Napoleon said. Illya didn’t respond, simply peered with puffy eyes into the innards of the transmitter. After a moment he reached in with his good hand.

Napoleon tucked his gun away and stood beside Illya, one hand on his back, one on his stomach, steadying him, more than half holding him up, feeling him shake as Illya forced focus and steadiness through the pain.

Something moved at the edge of Napoleon’s sight and he turned, blocking his partner with his own body.

“What the hell is this?” Trent stood at the corner of the machine, glaring. He moved forward, reaching for his holstered gun.

Napoleon lashed out, lightning fast, spurred by fury, backhanding the gun away and driving his fists into Trent’s body and face. The THRUSH flailed backward, stunned by the attack, and Napoleon advanced, pounding Trent with piston power, goaded by the image of Illya’s battered face and body. Then his partner’s image dissipated and Napoleon saw only blackness as he hammered at the man, over and over, hungry to destroy him, to erase his existence.

“Napoleon! Mr. Solo! Stop it!” LeAnn grabbed at his arm and he brushed her off, but somehow her presence and voice penetrated the haze of rage.

He stopped, blinked. He was on his knees. Trent lay under him, unconscious, his face a bloody pulp.

LeAnn said unsteadily, “I think you killed him.”

Napoleon looked at the backs of his hands. He hadn’t been very professional; he’d split the skin over a few knuckles. But the face was always more emotionally satisfying to damage than the body. He regarded the still form for a moment.

“He’s breathing,” he said. He wiped his hands on Trent’s coveralls and got up, taking in a cleansing breath. When he turned around he saw Illya, leaning in a pained arc against the machine, a number of heavy wires twined between his fingers. Napoleon felt suddenly calmer realizing his partner had probably never even looked up.

He returned to Illya’s side, laying one hand on his back to steady him. “About done?” he asked. Illya glanced at him, complete understanding in the brief look.

“Almost,” he rasped.

Footsteps clanged along the metal floor, distant, nearing rapidly. LeAnn ducked behind the machine with the two agents. Napoleon drew his gun again and sidled past his partner to watch the corridor. The machine’s hum was growing louder and more unsteady.

Two THRUSH guards came into the room and Napoleon felled them immediately, then went out to drag them behind the machine out of sight. LeAnn shrieked at the sight of the corpses.

“Be quiet if you don’t want to end up the same way,” Napoleon said. She stared at him, probably not understanding that he didn’t mean by his hand.

Illya moved away from the machine, hit the wall, and started to buckle. “We have about 15 minutes.” His voice ground with pain. Napoleon took hold of him again and the three of them headed out the way Napoleon and LeAnn had come in.

Surprisingly, LeAnn took the lead, one hand on the wall for guidance, the other holding Napoleon so he was free to help Illya along. The corridor must have curved gently; they moved in darkness for a while before spotting the light of the outside world ahead. Working their way carefully down the hill, they’d reached the jeep and Napoleon was easing his partner into it when they heard the explosion. The ground trembled slightly, just for a moment. Napoleon turned to see a plume of smoke rise from the top of the mountain.

He looked at his watch. “Hm. Off by four minutes.” He glanced at his partner, leaning back limp on the seat of the jeep. Illya gave him a reasonable approximation of his usual glare, said, “Your watch is fast.”

Napoleon patted his leg carefully as LeAnn climbed into the driver’s seat. He got in back. “Speaking of fast, LeAnn, can we get to town in this thing? My friend needs medical attention. Shut up,” he concluded, and Illya closed his mouth. “Don’t argue.”

She started the jeep and turned it around. Illya winced as the vehicle jounced across the rough ground, cradling his right arm in his left hand. Napoleon held him as steady as he could. “Hang on.”

By the time they reached the paved highway to Denver, Illya had passed out.

* * * *

Napoleon carried his partner into the emergency room, LeAnn scurrying alongside. Half a dozen other people in various states sat or lay in the room as Napoleon walked up to the desk.

“Can I get a little help here?” he asked.

The desk nurse took a look, gasped, and called out, “Hortense!”

An older nurse, bent over a man who appeared to be drunk or ill, straightened, saw Napoleon and his burden, and went to grab a gurney.

“What in the world happened?” she asked as Napoleon eased Illya’s unconscious body onto the gurney. “Car accident?”

She was already examining those injuries visible from the waist up. Napoleon stepped back and watched her work. His hands were damp. He looked down to see his partner’s blood on them.

“Oh dear,” the nurse said, pausing to peer up at him. “You don’t look very well.”

Napoleon shook his head, rasped out, “I’m fine.” He curled his hands into fists.

A young doctor, tall and dark-haired, swept into the room, scanned it, and came up to Hortense.

“What’s this?”

“Looks like he’s been beaten,” the nurse said, eyeing Napoleon as if expecting him to contradict her. “And here. His hand is broken. And this looks like...”

“Gunshot wound?” the doctor said sharply. “OK, let’s get him to X-ray.” He and the nurse started pushing the gurney along. Napoleon walked alongside, one hand on his partner’s shoulder.

“You’ll want to fill out the paperwork,” the doctor said, holding out one hand as if to prevent Napoleon from following them into X-ray.

“I’ll _want_ to stay right next to my partner, doctor,” Napoleon said. “I’ll fill out your forms later.”

The doctor shook his head, but they continued forward, rolling into the small X-ray room. The doctor and nurse stopped the gurney, then turned on Napoleon with the clear intent of shooing him away.

“Listen...” the doctor began. Then they saw the gun stuck in Napoleon’s belt.

The nurse gasped and the doctor gaped.

“You can’t have a gun in here!” the nurse cried.

“Why not?”

That stopped her, but the doctor said, “It’s dangerous.”

“Doctor, hospitals are dangerous. People die in them all the time.”

“Are you a policeman?” the doctor asked nervously.

“In the broadest sense. Just keep on doing what you’re doing.” Napoleon backed off to let them work, leaning on the wall near the door.

They took the X-rays. Illya came to when they lifted him upright to wrap his cracked ribs. He blinked, scanned the doctor and nurse with suspicious, pain-bleared eyes, tried to yank himself free of their hold.

“Napoleon!”

Napoleon sidled around the startled doctor and caught Illya’s arms.

“I’m right here. Listen to me. Let them take care of you.”

Illya stopped strugging, eyes locked on Napoleon’s.

“I’m right here,” Napoleon said again, forcing calm though the pain in his partner’s eyes and posture wrenched at him. He moved back to give the medicos room, but kept one hand wrapped around Illya’s biceps.

The nurse came over, armed with sponges, needles and sutures. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go now,” she said.

Napoleon smiled, his hand never leaving his partner’s arm. “Make me.”

The doctor came over, speaking mildly, clearly mindful of the gun. “Look—”

“You look,” Napoleon said. “Do what you have to do, and I’ll do what I have to do.”

“But we can’t—”

“Work around me,” he snapped. “And don’t make any mistakes.”

They wrapped his partner’s ribs; he passed out again while they were stitching him up. They splinted his broken hand and rolled him to a private room — Napoleon finally broke down and flashed his UNCLE badge to earn the privilege — hooked him up to a pain IV and left them.

 

LeAnn poked her face hesitantly around the door frame as Napoleon was making sure the window was locked.

“Um...” she began. “They want you to fill out some paperwork.” She beckoned him into the corridor, back down the hall to the receptionist. The doctor and nurse Hortense were conferring. Napoleon manfully approached them and said:

“Sorry about all that, doctor. There is a reason.”

The doctor said nothing.

Napoleon sighed inwardly. “What’s the prognosis?” He glanced down the deserted hall, anxious to keep an eye on the entrance to Illya’s room.

“Well, he’ll be all right. He’s got some cracked ribs to go with the three broken fingers on his right hand. Bullet crease on his left shoulder, but it was a clean entry and exit. Extensive bruising and lacerations, but no internal injuries. We’ve stitched up the worst cuts and set the hand. He’s lost some blood, and he’ll be weak for a while, but mostly he’ll just need time to recover. He may go in and out for a while.”

Napoleon nodded. “Thank you, doctor.” He headed back for the room.

“The paperwork!” the receptionist exclaimed.

Napoleon paused, held out his hand. “I’ll do it in there.”

She looked at the doctor, at Hortense, back at Napoleon. “I don’t think—”

“Believe me, when he wakes up, I need to be there.”

“I don’t know how this happened,” the doctor said, “but I’m going to have to report it to the police.” Napoleon didn’t argue, but the doctor said, as if he had, “That man has been beaten. It was deliberate. Planned, I would say. He’s also been shot. “

“I’m aware of that,” Napoleon said, cold.

“Well, can you tell me something about what happened?”

“Doctor, you’d never sleep again.” He took the clipboard, thick with paper, out of the receptionist’s hand.

* * * *

Illya started awake and tried to sit up.

“Don’t.” The word, and the gentle hand on his shoulder, erased his blank visceral fear. He lay back, squinting into the light, and his partner’s face moved into view.

“How do you feel?”

He considered his condition, sought for the right word, then couldn’t seem to find his voice, or the muscles that would move his mouth.

Napoleon smiled. “That’s what I figured. You passed out while they set your hand and stitched you up.”

Illya forced the words out. “I remember.”

“Good.” Napoleon sat back in the chair at the bedside and put his feet back up on the bed. Illya saw that he had his gun in his hand.

“Trouble?” he asked.

Napoleon shrugged. “Just being careful while we’re immobilized. Sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Napoleon ...” He felt fuzzy, thick-headed.

“What?”

“Can I trade jobs?”

“With me?” Napoleon asked, leaning closer.

“With Nick. Guarding you is easier.” He forced heavy eyelids open to see his partner smile; he felt Napoleon’s hand on his arm.

“That’s fine by me, partner. I like having you where I can see you anyway. Now go to sleep.”

Illya let his eyelids meet.

* * * *

He went in and out for a few hours, half-waking to find the girl LeAnn seated by his side. That puzzled him, and he would start to ask a question, only to find he’d fallen asleep again.

A quiet rustling sound woke him, fully, to the sight of his partner standing slightly bent over at the foot of the hospital bed, hands out of sight. They were alone; the lights were down low.

“Napoleon?”

Napoleon’s head shot up; he treated his partner to a sheepish look.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Illya shifted, sat up a little. “What are you doing?”

“How do you feel?” Napoleon asked, to the accompaniment of much out-of-sight rustling.

“Napoleon,” Illya said with false patience. “What are you doing down there?”

Napoleon straightened, hands behind his back, and looked around the darkened hospital room as if fearful of witnesses. He sidled around the side of the bed under his partner’s suspicious stare, then whipped into view: A gigantic stuffed lion.

Illya’s widened in amaze as Napoleon said, “Meet ... Tony.”

Napoleon set the lion, easily three feet long excluding its curling tail, gently onto Illya’s chest. “In case of ... of nightmares.”

“Napoleon...”  Illya swallowed roughly, laid his good hand over the lion, careful of the IV. He stroked the soft fur, smiled up at his partner.

Napoleon met his gaze, uncomfortable, unsure whether to joke or not. “In case of nightmares,” he said finally.

“I don’t have nightmares,” Illya said. “Not as long as you’re here.”

Napoleon said, “Then you’ll never have them.”

Illya took in a breath, cautious because of his ribs, and sighed it out. “Good.”

* * * *

At 9:18 the next morning, Jenny Cooper found her sister in the waiting room of the hospital getting a cup of what passed for tea from a vending machine.

“What happened? Are you all right? We saw the smoke. Where have you been?”

LeAnn said, “I’m fine. I ... it’s a long story. Come on.”

Mystified, Jenny followed her sister down a corridor and into a private room where a man lay in a cranked-up bed. At first Jenny thought, jolted, that it must be Napoleon, but this man had long blond hair. Little else of his appearance could be made out through the bruises and swelling on his face, but his eyes glowed blue out of that face as he watched them approach.

“Vending machine tea?” he said, his voice low and hoarse. His right hand was splinted and his torso wrapped. A big stuffed animal — a lion — lay beside him on the narrow hospital bed.

“Sorry,” LeAnn said quietly, easing the door shut. “You’re not supposed to have it at all. We can pretend it was for me.” She gave him the cup and he sipped it, made a face, and said:

“Thank you.”

“This is my sister Jenny,” LeAnn said.

Jenny smiled, feeling severely awkward. “Hello.”

“I apologize for not getting up,” he said. She waved a hand.

“No problem, Mr...”

“Illya Kuryakin,” LeAnn supplied. “He and Mr. Solo work for the UNCLE.”

Jenny stared a moment, then slapped her thigh. “I _knew_ that man wasn’t a regular tourist. But what did UNCLE want with us?”

“Wait,” LeAnn said, taking the cup back from Illya. “Napoleon said he had to go do something — report in, I guess — but he said he’d be back soon. I’ll tell you all then. You should try to rest,” she said to Illya, who promptly closed his eyes.

LeAnn beckoned her sister toward the door.

“Who is that?” Jenny said.

“He must be Napoleon’s partner. I didn’t realize that at first, but ...” she glanced at Illya. “He was all over the doctor last night. I swear I thought he was going to shoot someone until he found out his friend was going to be OK.” Another glance. “Napoleon wouldn’t let them keep him out while they were examining him.” She dropped her voice further. “I think he was worried the doctor might do something.”

“The doctor?” Jenny scoffed.

LeAnn shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“You spent the night here?” Jenny asked.

“I slept in the jeep.”

“LeAnn!” Jenny exclaimed, shocked.

LeAnn shrugged. “Napoleon asked me to sit with his friend for a little while last night, then he came back and told me to go home, but it was too late and I was too tired to drive that far.”

“Why didn’t you go to a hotel?” Jenny asked.

“I didn’t have enough money on me. I didn’t want to ask Mr. Solo for it. I ... well, when I tell you, you’ll understand. I felt bad enough already.” LeAnn shook her head. “Anyway, when I woke up, I came in. Napoleon and Illya talked for a while, and Napoleon asked me to keep an eye on things for a little, and he left. That’s when I called you.”

“What is going on?” Jenny demanded to know.

LeAnn sighed. “Well, it started in Denver...”

* * * *

Napoleon entered the hospital room to see the two Cooper girls bending over his partner, one helping him to sit more upright while the other dabbed his brow with a damp cloth. Laughing silently he came up to the foot of the bed, hands clasped behind his back.

When the girls drew away Illya spotted him; his battered face acquired an expression of embarrassment.

“I see I left you in good hands,” he said. Both Cooper girls jumped.

“Oh, Napoleon,” Jenny said. “I didn’t see you.”

“Obviously. Well,” he said to his partner, “your mysterious charm — mysterious to me, anyway — has done it again. It certainly isn’t your looks.”

LeAnn protested, “But he’s — “ she stopped, reddened. “I mean, before...” she looked at Illya, abashed. “Sorry.”

“Oh, he’ll be his old self in a few weeks,” Napoleon said.

“Where have you been?” Illya counterattacked. “I could have ended up back in the clutches of some THRUSH plug-uglies while you galavanted around town.”

“There isn’t much galavanting to be had in Denver,” LeAnn said.

Napoleon arched his brows. “I was making sure we cleaned up our mess.” The significance of the remark was not lost on Illya, who said:

“And did we?”

“Consider our mess cleaned up,” Napoleon said.

“But where did this come from?” LeAnn asked, petting the stuffed lion.

“Oh, that’s just Tony,” Napoleon said.

“Oh! You got it for your friend.” Jenny reached out for the animal and placed it gently on Illya’s chest, patting it as if she would prefer to be patting him. “That’s so sweet of you, Napoleon.”

“He’s adorable,” LeAnn said, stroking the lion’s mane.

Napoleon scowled. “Which one? The _stuffed_ animal, or the other one?”

“Who is definitely not stuffed,” Illya grumbled, but his good hand came up, as if of its own accord, to pet the stuffed lion. Napoleon smiled.

“I’ll see what I can smuggle in, if these ladies will consent to keep an eye on you...”

LeAnn looked at them both, said, “I’ll go. I know a greasy spoon where they do the best biscuits and gravy in the world.”

“Biscuits and gravy?” Illya perked up so noticeably they all laughed.

“Can I trust you?” Napoleon asked LeAnn.

“I’ll take Jenny with me,” she said, meeting his gaze frankly. “I’ll come back, Mr. Solo.”

He accepted that, but said, “I was thinking of something far more important. Can I trust you with ... my credit card?” He reached for his wallet, brows upraised.

The girls giggled. “My treat,” Jenny said, taking her sister’s arm. “We won’t be long.”

“Are you all right?” Illya asked as soon as the door shut behind the sisters.

Napoleon looked at his partner. “I believe I am. I spoke to Mr. Waverly. He recalled the demolitions team and sent out a cleanup team. I’ll rendezvous with them at the ranch in the morning.”

“There’s a chance Dr. Onofrio escaped the blast,” Illya said.

“I know. That’s why I sent the police to cover the road off the mountain. They caught him last night, while I was at the toy store, scanning the stuffed animal aisles like some kind of pervert.”

Illya smiled faintly, stroked the lion’s back. “When do we leave?” he asked.

“In a hurry?” Napoleon challenged.

“The opposite,” his partner admitted.

“Well, it just so happens our boss has granted us some recovery time before we fly off to, respectively, the New York HQ medical section and piles of undone paperwork—”

“That’s your own fault,” Illya said.

“I didn’t have my partner to do it for me.”

“Those words will be carved on your headstone.”

Napoleon chuckled. “Probably. So ... what do you think about spending a few recuperative days in a lovely rural setting, with home-cooked meals and plenty of personal attention? That’s assuming I can get the doctor to spring you at some point. We can introduce Nick to Tony.”

The faint smile returned. “That sounds like a good idea.”

“I’ll pull a few strings. I think I can arrange it.”

“You can be useful to have around sometimes,” Illya said. He looked thoughtfully at the lion for a moment. “How do you think Nick and Tony will get along?”

“Like cats and dogs, probably,” Napoleon said. He smiled at Illya’s surprised glance, then said, “Or maybe like you and I.”

 

The End


End file.
